(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)

     Sam has different levels of “losing it”.
     As I leave the supermarket he is gearing up for a spectacular tantrum. His face is red, his lungs are swelling, and his dummy hangs on his bottom lip ready to escape.
     In a practised move, I lower my bags, hang the rifle in the crook of my arm, and strip the wrapping from a lollypop. With one hand I whip the dummy away, and plug the lollypop in its place.
     “Mfft,” says Sam happily.
     “Make it last,” I say, rolling the supermarket door shut.